The Loneliness of the SVU Detective
by Shae-Lynn1
Summary: Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. 4 of 5. Updated 9 March 2005.
1. Nick

Title: The Loneliness of the SVU Detective 

**Author: Shae-Lynn – **

**Genre: General**

**Archive: The SVU Fanfic Archive ). Please ask if you wish to archive elsewhere.**

**Disclaimer: The characters of Olivia Benson, Brian Cassidy, Jeff York, Nick Gantzner, Elliot Stabler, and Greg Elliot do not belong to me. I am using them only for my own entertainment.**

**Notes: Based loosely on Margaret Atwood's "The Loneliness of the Military Historian." The statistics used came from the websites for the Association for Children's Services and the New York City Alliance Against Sexual Assault.**

**Additonal Note: This chapter has been re-written **

**Summary: "Confess: it's my profession/that alarms you."**

* * *

..._I tell_

_what I hope will pass as truth._

_A blunt thing, not lovely._

_The truth is seldom welcome, _

_especially at dinner, _

_though I am good at what I do._

_My trade is in courage and atrocities._

Huang leaned back in his chair and stared at Olivia.

"And what do you do to unwind?" he asked. Olivia was wary, especially since talking to shrinks had dragged both Elliot and Monique in front of the Morris Commission a few years ago.

"I listen to music," she shrugged.

"Have you been in any relationships lately?" She shook her head.

"No time."

"Is that really the issue?" Huang asked. God damn it. He had this uncanny way of analyzing her. "It's not really that simple, is it, Olivia?" She felt tears begin to form in her eyes.

God she had been so young and idealistic.

Olivia first met Nick Gantzner after a high-profile case dealing with the sexual assault of a local celebrity. While Cragen answered questions from the media, Olivia slipped out of the crowd of reporters, back to her car. Just when she thought she was alone on the street, she heard running footsteps behind her. She stopped and turned.

"Detective Benson!" A younger man with glasses wearing a beige trench coat was running after her. She didn't recognize him.

"Do I know you?" she called, puzzled. He caught up with her and had to bend over to catch his breath. It took him a minute. His breath made clouds in the cold air.

"Sorry, I really need to get into shape," he smiled. She smiled back, looking at his face, flushed with the cold. He had about a day's worth of stubble. She had to admit he was quite attractive.

"Can I help you?" Olivia asked him.

"Nick Gantzner. I'm from the Post. I'd just like to ask you a couple of questions." He pulled out a press pass. Olivia's smile faded. She turned and began to walk again.

"You'll have to address those to Captain Cragen."

"I wanted to get _your_ impressions on the case," he argued, following.

"Sorry, I have to go." She smiled cynically. Reporters. Never turn your back on one.

"Detective Benson! Olivia! Just one question!" Nick called. His use of her first name caught her off-guard. She stopped and turned back to him. "Can I take you for coffee sometime?" She looked at him suspiciously.

"No questions? No probing?"

"It'll be completely off the record," he assured.

"Tomorrow at ten. Grounds for Coffee. Know where that is?" If they were going to do this, it was going to be on her terms.

"You bet. I'm looking forward to it." And he jogged back in the direction he came.

After the coffee he took her out whenever she had time, which wasn't often. He did tell her he loved her. She always brushed it off. They were both exceptionally busy. Nick took her for a beer a few times after work, to dinner another couple of nights. He rarely asked her about work and never asked her about specific cases. She began to read his crime reporting in the Post when she got the chance. He was a good writer.

Then there was the case of the subway rapist.

Nick had been so nice the day before the call came in, so understanding when she cancelled on him again, that she considered giving him a tip. Nothing too specific, just when and where. She stood outside the precinct doors and called him from her cell phone.

"Nick?"

"Olivia?"

"Hey. There's something you might be interested in going on."

"You mean the subway rapist? Heard he struck again this morning. I was just heading over there. Call you later, okay?" Before she had time to answer, he had hung up. She stood staring at the receiver for a minute before closing her phone and heading inside.

That evening, Nick came to the precinct, walked in to the squadroom like he owned the place.

"Missed you at Columbus Circle," he said.

"Missed you too."

But he just had to ask about the suspect. She remembered how he'd hung up on her that morning. That was Nick: work always mixed in with play. Damn. She looked at his face smiling at her, heard him flirting with her. She gave him another chance to do things her way.

"Chinese Wall," Olivia proposed.

"Moo shu?"

"Dim sum. Eight o'clock"

He was back to his charming self at dinner. No questions, no probing. At one point, he took her empty teacup.

"What are you doing?" Olivia asked.

"Reading your tea leaves," he stated nonchalantly.

"Oh, so now you're a psychic," she laughed.

"I see good fortune in your future. Money and fame."

"Sure," she smiled.

"And something else," he continued, trying to make his voice mysterious.

"What else?" she humoured him.

"A man. Very handsome. His name begins with N," Nick continued.

"Your name begins with N."

"It must be destiny," he told Olivia.

"I don't believe in destiny."

They went to Barology after the dim sum. It was a reporters' pub that Nick frequented, slightly more up-scale than the places cops tended to go. Sitting at the bar, Olivia felt slightly out of place.

"So, this subway rapist," Nick began. Olivia straightened. Couldn't he just forget about it for one night?

The music was crowding her mind. She heard Nick tell her he loved her again. There was still something about him that was gnawing at her, even after all this time. Something about Nick wasn't quite right.

"Really?" he paused. "So, your subway rapist, maybe he's just trying to spread his seed..." She cut him off.

"Okay, why is he _my_ subway rapist?"

The gnawing feeling was growing, along with anger. She felt a headache coming on. She was having trouble getting her words out without stuttering. Trying to calm herself down, she missed his response. Something about a book. "I should write a book," she said, taking a drink of her beer.

"You should. You know these people," Nick stated, encouraging. Mentally, she flinched. Verbally, she denied it. "Yes you do. That's why people move away from you on the sofa, Olivia," Nick continued, "You get inside sex offenders."

Sonofabitch. She took another drink, finishing the bottle, trying to pull herself up. The gnawing was extreme by this point. She wanted to leave, but Nick intercepted her. She narrowed her gaze at him.

"I'm not moving away," he said. The look in his eyes was so full of sincerity that she felt herself forgiving him. She smiled seductively.

"I can see that. Can we forget about work right now?" she asked.

"Sure," Nick said. "Am I coming back to your place?" She took a minute to mull it over.

"Yeah."

He had seen her apartment only once before. She took off her coat and hung it on a chair, before gesturing to the couch.

"Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? I've got some wine" She went into the kitchen and uncorked some chardonnay.

"I think I've had enough, but I just want to be with you." She took two glasses and the bottle to the couch. "How was your day?" he asked. Olivia sighed.

"Same as every day. You?" But he was already leaning over to kiss her. She sank back into the couch and let him explore her mouth. The alcohol was creating pleasant warmth in her core. She was open. He was eager, but suddenly he drew back.

She didn't remember much about the kissing, but she remembered they were standing up when he said it, his arms around her waist from behind.

"Let's pretend that I'm the guy on the subway."

"Okay, stop it," she said, panic rising in her throat. There was suddenly fear, disgust, and a sense of betrayal. She had to get him out of there. She had to get him off her. She kept staring at his face, wondering how she could have missed it. "Wow. I'm going to go wash my face and my hands and my mouth and, um, there's the door. Make sure you're out when I get out of here. Gone." Anger coursed over her. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She ran the water hot, filled her hands with water and splashed her face. It wasn't enough. She felt wired. She ended up in a scalding shower, scrubbing herself over and over again with soap. Finally, she turned the water off. She wrapped herself in a towel and stumbled into bed.

And then he used her by reading her confidential files, by using information for his stories. She was lucky Cragen didn't put her ass in a sling. She wanted Nick's balls on a platter.

So she humiliated him at his office. She hoped he felt like shit. She hoped everyone in his office learned just what he was. She hoped that he would rot in hell.

A few days later, Nick was demoted to sports briefs. Olivia was at her desk drinking coffee when she found out. Cragen had emerged from his office into the squadroom, holding The Post. She felt a chill of apprehension. What has he written about now? Cragen passed the sports pages over to her desk without a word.

Olivia liked reading his name in tiny print above three short paragraphs dedicated to baseball statistics. She couldn't imagine him doing much harm in his new line of work.

_"Hey. Let's pretend I'm the pitcher and you're the catcher_."

Olivia tried to laugh at the thought. She couldn't.

* * *

Thanks for your constructive feedback. More to come hopefully quite soon. Please review constructively! 


	2. Brian

Note: Potential spoilers for Closure Part I.

Rating changed to R

* * *

_True, sometimes valour counts for something, _

_as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right, _

_though ultimate virtue by agreed tradition _

_is decided by the winner._

_Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades _

_and burst like paper bags of guts _

_to save their comrades. _

_I can admire that._

In those early days on the squad, she drank more than she should have, she realizes now. She cringes with the memory. Brian.

Most of the SVU detectives had gone to a cop bar around the corner from the precinct. Olivia sat at a table in the smoke-filled bar with Munch, Jeffries, and Cassidy, sharing a pitcher of beer. Elliot had gone home to his family. The other detectives were celebrating closing a particularly difficult case.

"Guilty on all counts," repeated Cassidy with a smile.

"Congratulations, Brian," Jeffries said, patting him on the back. It had been Cassidy's collar.

"At least now his victims can sleep at night," Munch stated solemnly. His remark cast a pall over the group. Olivia wondered which ones of the living victims they were each contemplating. Michelle? The twelve-year-old Anna? Jasmine, the grade-school teacher? She thought about Mejra, the first victim. Mejra was a nineteen-year-old exchange student from Yugoslavia. She hadn't been in New York City more than two weeks before being raped and nearly beaten to death in a back alley. Olivia couldn't forget the girl's dark eyes, clouded with rage that something like this could happen to her. Could happen to her in America.

Olivia emptied her mug with another swallow and filled it again. Jeffries broke the silence: "I'm going to head home. See you tomorrow."

"I'll drive you," offered Munch. They got their coats and exited through the swirls of cigarette smoke into the cold night.

Olivia and Brian were left alone at the table. He looked despondent.

"Which one were you thinking about?" Olivia asked.

"The little girl. Anna," he replied. After a moment, he continued, "Her life will never be the same." Olivia nodded.

"But you just made sure that that sick bastard can't do that to any more women. You did a great job on this, Brian." He looked at her with something like hope in his eyes.

"Maybe you're right, Olivia."

"You did all you could."

"I did all I could." Olivia looked at her watch.

"It's getting late," she said, beginning to stand. She lost her balance, swaying slightly on her feet. Brian noticed it.

"You can't drive," he said, concerned.

"I'll take the subway," she offered. Brian shook his head.

"Let's walk back to my place. I'll call you a cab," he stated firmly. She nodded. He helped her with her coat and took her arm as they left.

Outside, the air was frigid. Car windows were starting to frost over and the sidewalk was getting slippery. Olivia had to work very hard not to fall. She felt numb, deliciously numb. She leaned against Brian for support. Luckily, his apartment was close by. When they stepped into the lobby they both had red cheeks and noses from the cold. He helped her into the elevator.

"Thanks, Brian. I appreciate this."

"No problem, Olivia." He was smiling at her in such a way as made her slightly nervous. She couldn't quite place the feeling. They got off at his floor. His door was right across from the elevator. He opened the door and flicked on the lights.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess," he said, "Have a seat." He gestured to the blue checked couch in the living room. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Great, thanks." Olivia wandered around the room. Everything seemed very tasteful and homey. Very un-Brian. She wondered if his mother had picked out his things. His mother, or an old girlfriend. She realized she knew very little about Brian Cassidy. She picked up a photo on the bookshelf. It showed Brian and a blonde woman standing in front of a pond.

"What are you looking at?" Brian asked, coming up behind her.

"Girlfriend?" she asked, showing him the picture.

"No!" he exclaimed hastily. "Sister." He took the picture from her. Their hands met. Without even realizing what she was doing, Olivia leaned in to kiss him, pushing her lips against his. He responded, opening his warm mouth to her. He brought a hand around to cradle the back of her head. She ran her hands down his chest and began to unbutton his shirt. Her hands were shaky with the buttons. Brian pulled back and looked into her eyes with a kind of longing.

"Olivia…" he said with uncertainty.

"Shhh," she replied, pulling his shirt off him.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes." She stopped his mouth with another kiss and felt him relent. He took her hand and led her to the bedroom. On the way she managed to pull off her shirt and bra. Brian closed the door behind her and stood for a minute, looking at her as she peeled off the rest of her clothes. He groaned low in his throat.

"Olivia, you are so beautiful," he breathed. She didn't answer, only moved back to him to undo his belt. He seemed almost afraid to touch her as she pulled off his pants and underwear.

"Touch me," she said. Then, in almost a whisper, "I need to forget." He tilted her chin up and kissed her again, softly. He peppered her face and neck with light kisses. His hands trailed lightly over her skin, moving up her arms, over her shoulders, into her hair. When she could no longer stand it, she backed him up so he sat on the bed. She reached down and took his length into her hands, feeling it harden further. Then she pushed him back so he lay down and climbed on top of him.

"Wait," he said, reaching to the bedside table. He grabbed a condom out of the drawer and slipped it on as quickly as possible.

Olivia took control, lowering herself onto him. As she pushed him inside of her, he groaned with pleasure.

"Olivia," he gasped. She felt an overwhelming urge to crawl inside of him, to press herself so tightly against him that she would dissolve into him like ice melting on hot pavement. As good as she felt being filled in this way, the images of the victims were filling her mind again.

"Please," she says in a thin whisper, "make me forget." All of a sudden, Brian rolled them over so he was on top. He pushed inside of her, kissing her hot on the mouth. Olivia could feel Brian's heart beating wildly in his chest and she concentrated on that pulse. She felt tension building low in her belly and she gripped his shoulders with her nails, wrapped her legs around his waist. She could tell he was struggling to hold on, his control slipping.

"Please, please," she asked again, not sure to whom she was talking. He came with a low moan and she felt his body tense and shudder. His muscles seemed to soften and relax as he pulled himself out of her and collapsed beside her on the bed, sighing with pleasure. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Olivia was already asleep.

Brian smiled at her, covered her with the blanket. He kissed her on the forehead and lay back down.

When her pager woke her up the next morning, her first thought was, _Fuck. What happened?_ She had a splitting headache and acid was burning her esophagus. Her next thought was, _How do I get out of this?_

Not without hurting Brian.

She gave him a peck on the cheek and climbed out of bed quickly. He asked her to wait, but she just couldn't. She thought of things she might tell him.

_Look, Brian. It's not you, it's me._

_We were lonely, I was drunk. It didn't mean anything._

_Let's just be friends._

Months later, her friend who worked Robbery called her "insane" for passing up a chance with Brian Cassidy.

"Well it doesn't matter anymore, he asked for a transfer."

"You won't get that chance again, girl."

"I was drunk. It didn't mean anything."

Unfortunately, that wasn't entirely true.


	3. Michael

_Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,_

_or none that can be finally buried._

_Finish one off and circumstances _

_and the radio create another._

_Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently _

_to God all night and meant it, _

_and been slaughtered anyway._

If only they could all be explained away as easily as Michael.

How many times did she break off dates with him? Too bad, too. He'd seemed like a really nice guy.

He'd stopped her on the street outside her apartment building, asking for directions. Normally, she wouldn't have stopped, she was too aware of the lengths some people would go to in order to con others, to mug them, even to rape them. But he looked so hapless, staring at his map, his glasses falling down his nose, that she took pity.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for the Oakridge Mews," he said.

"Oh. It's just around the corner to your left," she replied. He looked up from his map and she saw then his firm jaw, his penetrating blue eyes.

"Thank you so much," he replied slowly, staring right into her. She felt a bit disconcerted. "I'm going to be looking at one of the apartments there," he explained, "I wish there was some way I could thank you." His manner was like this, very formal and polite. She guessed he wasn't from around here.

"Don't worry about it," Olivia responded, turning. She was late for work; she began to walk down the street away from him.

"Wait!" he called. She turned again to see him coming up behind her, puzzled. "Don't go just yet. I'm new here. I've just been transferred to a new job. I don't know anyone in New York. My name's Michael Easton." He stuck out a hand. Ordinarily, Olivia would have been suspicious, but there was something very sincere about this man.

"Olivia Benson. Look, I really have to be getting to work."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you," he said. He watched her walk off down the street and it wasn't until she rounded the corner that he realized he might never see her again.

Three months later, in late December, she ran into him again.

She was heading for the checkout when she realized she had forgotten to buy some milk. There was a long line-up of people buying last-minute fixings for their Christmas dinners. She spun around too quickly and smacked into the person behind her. The impact knocked them both over.

"Damn it." She got up on her hands and knees began to pick up her groceries from around her.

"I'm terribly sorry," said the man, "Allow me to help you."

"I'm okay, thanks," she said. He persisted in picking up her fallen items anyway. When everything was back in her basket, she finally looked him in the face. He looked strangely familiar. He was wearing a black trench coat over a pair of dress pants. He had on a red wool scarf and black leather gloves. There was a small poinsettia in his buttonhole.

"Thank you for your help," she said.

"Olivia…Benson?"

"Yes…" she replied, puzzled. He extended his hand. His grip was warm and firm.

"Michael Easton. We met a few months ago. You gave me directions." She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "I don't quite remember."

"That's all right."

"Hey, do you mind? People are waiting," informed a rotund bearded man behind them.

"Terribly sorry," Michael replied. Olivia was touched by his manners. People like that were a rarity in her neighbourhood. It was then that she remembered when they had first met; he had been polite then, too.

"So, did that apartment work out?" she asked as she began to unload her groceries on the conveyor belt.

"I'm surprised you remember. Yes, I've been living in the Oakridge Mews for a couple of years. I suppose we're neighbours," he smiled.

"I suppose so." She smiled back.

"Paper or plastic?" asked the young, blonde cashier with a fake smile.

"Uh, plastic is fine," Olivia replied, searching in her bag for her wallet.

"Olivia," Michael began, "I hope you don't think this is too forward…" She found her credit card and handed it to the cashier.

"What is?" she asked.

"Well, I can't help but notice that it's December 23 and you're buying bread and carrots. Do you have plans for Christmas?" he inquired. She looked down at his basket of groceries: apples, cheese and toothpaste. When she didn't answer immediately, he continued more quickly, "What I mean to say is, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner? I don't have any other plans. It wouldn't be anything too fancy, I'm afraid to say." She thought about it. It seemed a little much for a first date, but Elliot and Kathy were off at Kathy's mother's with the kids, Cragen was meeting some old friends, Munch had been enigmatic about his plans, and Fin had mentioned he might be seeing his new girlfriend. Olivia's best friend from the Academy, Angela, had invited her over for the past couple of years since Olivia's mother's death, but ever since Angela had had a baby two years ago, Olivia couldn't help the feeling that she was intruding.

She looked into Michael's eyes. He looked so solid, though his voice had sounded so afraid she might refuse him. What the hell, she thought, it's better than being alone.

"Sure," she answered with a smile, "that would be nice." She could see him sigh with relief.

Outside the grocery store, fresh snow was beginning to fall softly. They exchanged phone numbers in the orange glow of the parking lot lamps.

"I guess I'll see you soon," Olivia said.

"Until then."

When Olivia got home and unlocked the door to her apartment, she realized meeting Michael had made her forget the milk.

* * *

Olivia knocked on Michael's door just after six o'clock on Christmas day, bottle of wine in hand. On the assumption that it wouldn't be anything formal, she was wearing a red chenille sweater and jeans under her coat. Michael, however, was wearing a high-quality, deep red button-down shirt and black dress pants.

"Come in," he gestured with a glowing smile. He accepted her wine graciously and showed her the coat tree. She was almost surprised he didn't hang the coat himself. "Dinner's almost ready. Why don't I show you around?" What he had referred to as an apartment was really more of a townhouse. Michael led her through the kitchen into the dining room, which contained a table set for two with red taper candles in the middle of it, and into the large living room. He only briefly gestured to the bedroom, without opening its door to show her. She wasn't sure whether he hadn't had time to clean it, or whether he was afraid of pressuring her. She guessed the latter.

"You have a very nice place, Michael," she complimented.

"Thank you. Why don't you have a seat and I'll bring in dinner?" She scanned the books on his immense bookshelf rather than taking a seat on one of the hard-looking blue sofas. The majority of the books seemed to be texts relating to literature. However, she also noticed a few books about hiking in the Maritime Provinces as well as a few trashy mystery novels. She sat down on a blue swing-backed chair and picked up his coffee table book of photographs of Canadian scenery.

"Are you from Canada, Michael?" she called.

"Yes, from Montreal," he replied, "Dinner is ready." Olivia returned to the dining room and was startled by the fastidiousness and sheer size of the meal on the table. She could recognize turkey, potatoes, stuffing, broccoli, and squash, but there were also several dishes she couldn't quite make out.

"Wow," she said as she sat down.

"Perhaps I did make too much. I'm sorry, I didn't ask if you had any food allergies, so I made some wheat-free stuffing and a meatless turkey." She blinked in amazement.

"No, no allergies," she replied. He sat down across from her and, with all the food between them, he seemed miles away. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he served them and she had to admit this was better than sitting in her apartment, watching It's a Wonderful Life for the millionth time, feeling sorry for herself. "So why did you leave Canada?" she asked, picking up a forkful of squash. She tasted it. It was exquisite.

"I got a job at Hudson. I teach undergraduate English Literature." She nodded. "What about you, Olivia? I never found out what you do." As if on cue, her cell phone rang. She felt a sinking feeling of she was about to disappoint him.

"Excuse me one minute," she said, stepping out into the living room to take the call. "Benson," she answered. It was Cragen, letting her know she was to meet Munch in the Alphabet City ASAP. "I'll be right there." She returned to the dining room but didn't sit back down.

"Is everything okay?" asked Michael, concern written on his face.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go. There's been an attack I have to respond to." She remembered she hadn't answered Michael's question. "I'm a detective," she clarified. She saw his face fall.

"It's all right. If you can wait a minute, I'll throw some of this food together for you to take," Michael offered. She felt horrible; she could hardly refuse. She went into the front hall and retrieved her coat and scarf from the coat tree. When she was ready to leave, Michael met her with a Tupperware container full of food. He looked fairly crestfallen.

"Thank you so much. I'm so sorry about tonight. Maybe we can do lunch sometime," she suggested. He seemed to perk up a little at the thought.

"I'll phone you tomorrow?" She frowned.

"Maybe I should give you my work number." She pulled out her card and watched him frown as he read it: "Detective Olivia Benson. Manhattan Special Victims Unit."

"Special Victims Unit?" he inquired.

"Um," she struggled to phrase it positively, "we deal with crimes involving children and…sexually-motivated crimes." His frown deepened and he furrowed his brow. She understood the reaction. She didn't suppose he'd signed on for someone with her job when he'd picked her up at the supermarket.

"Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow then, Detective," he said quietly.

"Thank you so much again, Michael." She didn't know exactly how to part. They weren't close enough yet to kiss or even hug and a handshake somehow felt too formal. She settled on a small, awkward wave.

* * *

Snow was falling so heavily the ploughs couldn't quite keep up. Olivia waded through a few drifts on her way from the place where she had parked to the crime scene on Avenue B. There, she saw Munch conversing with a uniform. He broke away and came to meet her.

"What do we have?" she asked. He led her over to a dark alley, which was now crawling with crime scene technicians.

"Our vic was found over here. She was raped and sodomized with a bottle. She's in a bus right now on her way to Mount Sinai. I was waiting for you before I headed over there."

"Did we find the bottle?"

"CSU has it."

"Where's your partner?" he asked as they made their way to Munch's car.

"I could ask you the same thing. Elliot's at the in-laws for Christmas."

"I don't know what my partner's doing."

"So how did we get roped into this? Didn't you have plans for Christmas?"

"What? A Red Sea pedestrian like me?" She smiled.

"Guess not." In the car on the way to the hospital, she tried to picture a future Christmas similar to the one Elliot must be having, but with her at the centre of the family. She saw the table loaded with food, saw Munch and Cragen and Angela's family all being hosted by her and…Michael? Could he fill those shoes? Could he be to her what Kathy was to Elliot: someone to take over at home while she tracked down rapists and pedophiles? This thought dampened the romance of the image.

* * *

He called six times in the following weeks.

"You have reached 555-4514. I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. –Beep-."

"Um, hi, Olivia. This is Michael Easton calling. I just wanted to let you know I had a nice time last night, even though you couldn't stay. I guess I'll try you at work."

"You have reached the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. Detective Benson is currently unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone, or, if you would like to leave a number where you can be reached, press one now. If this is an emergency, please call 555-6119. –Beep-."

"Michael Easton here. I was just calling to see how you are and to find out if you're going to be able to go for lunch any time soon. Please call me back at 555-9247. That's 555-9247. Thank you."

"Benson."

"Olivia? It's Michael."

"Hey. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to get back to you. Things have been crazy around here."

"I read in the paper. Are you involved in investigating the missing girls?"

"Um, yeah. I'm not really allowed to talk about it, though, so…"

"I understand. Do you know when you'll be free?"

"I'm sure I can get some time off tonight. I know it's short notice… How about we meet at Bukowski's? Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, it's close to my building. At what time would you like to meet?"

"Is seven okay?"

"That would be fine." Olivia was about to say more, but she heard Cragen call for her and Elliot.

"Look, Michael, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow." She hung up, forgetting to say goodbye.

"See you," he said to the empty line.

"You have reached the Manhattan Special Victims Unit…."

"It's Michael Easton calling," his voice was excited, "I just wanted to tell you I'm really looking forward to dinner tonight. You can call if you get a chance, but I guess I'll see you tonight otherwise. Hope you're having a good day."

"Benson."

"Olivia? It's Michael."

"Michael."

"Are you all right? You weren't at Bukowski's… I read that another girl was kidnapped…"

"I am so, so sorry. I haven't been home. I can't leave right now. We're close to breaking this thing, but it needs a little more time."

"I understand," he said, his tone indicating otherwise. God, she thought, why did a case like this have to come up just when she might have met someone worthwhile? "Maybe we could meet for lunch tomorrow. We could even go somewhere closer to your work, if that would help."

"Okay. There's a little Mexican place called Tita's."

"I know where it is. One o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

"Benson."

"Hello, Olivia. It's Michael again."

"Michael, I'm sorry. Did you get my message?"

"What message?"

"I phoned to let you know I couldn't meet you today. Did you go?"

"Yes, I waited for over an hour," he said, irritation present in his voice.

"I'm so sorry. I tried to get ahold of you. Look, can I call you when this thing blows over?"

"Sure." Somehow, they both knew she wouldn't call.

* * *

"How's it going, Maureen?" inquired Olivia, who had been invited to the Stablers' for dinner. "How's Hudson?"

"You mean the classes she's actually been going to?" Elliot commented.

"Dad," Maureen rolled her eyes, "It's okay," she answered vaguely.

"What are you taking?"

"Linguistics, Poli Sci, Biology, History, and English Lit," she rattled off.

"Sounds like a lot of work," Olivia observed.

"She's really enjoying English," Kathy smiled, "Eat some more broccoli, Dickie." She spooned some on to his plate.

"No," Dickie objected, pushing it away.

"Dickie," Elliot warned.

"Professor Easton's the best," Maureen clarified, turning to Olivia.

"Easton." Olivia hadn't heard the name in a long time, but she supposed she should have known his life was carrying on as usual, just like hers.

"Olivia Benson?" the voice came from behind her, somewhere between the bananas and the zucchinis. She turned and saw Michael Easton, looking somewhat older and more distinguished. The woman he was with had long, shiny brown hair and trendy glasses. She was wearing a pinstriped pantsuit. She looked out of place carrying the grocery basket full of toilet paper, bread, and bananas.

"Michael. I haven't seen you in…"

"Three years. Olivia, this is my wife, Monica. Monica teaches Women's Studies at Hudson. Monica, this is Detective Benson, she lives just around the corner from us." Monica extended a hand and gave Olivia a warm smile.

"Nice to meet you," said Olivia.

"Nice to meet you, Detective." Olivia couldn't quite identify what she was feeling: some mixture of disappointment and sadness. She couldn't help but think that, had she been a man, she could have found a woman to cope with her work schedule. She could have found a Kathy.

When she got back to her apartment and unpacked her groceries, she realized she'd forgotten the milk.

_If my eyes roll and I mutter, _

_if my arms are gloved in blood right up to the elbow, _

_if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror _

_like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, _

_I do it in private and nobody sees _

_but the bathroom mirror._


	4. Sam

_In general I might agree with you:_

_women should not contemplate war…_

_Women should march for peace, _

_or hand out white feathers to inspire bravery…_

_These are the functions that inspire general comfort. _

_That, and the knitting of socks for the troops _

_and a sort of moral cheerleading…_

She didn't quite see it at first. He seemed so nice that time in the squadroom when Elliot was in Prague. Cragen had introduced her to Sam Bishop from Homicide and she originally thought he was pretty innocuous. A bit wiry, greasy despite his suit, which looked like belonged on a defense attorney or a city councillor, not a lowly homicide detective.

"Nice to meet you," she said, standing from her desk to shake his hand.

"My pleasure," he said with a smile, staring right into her eyes. He didn't let go of her hand. Hersmile tightened.

"Well, I have to get back to work." She withdrew her hand and sat down, returning to her computer.

"Of course." He sat across from her at Elliot's desk and took out some files and his notebook. She couldn't help looking up at him from time to time and whenever she did, he was looking back at her.

Sam Bishop came in every day: for a briefing, to provide new information, because he had forgotten some files he had been working on. Olivia suspected these visits were all part of an elaborate ruse to speak to her: he was hardly subtle.

"Hey, Olivia, I think I forgot my keys. I'm just heading out to dinner, do you want to come?" She had nothing better to do, so she agreed. They went down to the parking garage where he had parked his enormous SUV. She raised her eyebrows. He noticed. "I do some off-roading," he explained. She looked him up and down again: his greasy hair, his expensive suit, the whiff of cologne, the polish on his shoes. Somehow she doubted it. The gym? Probably. White-water rafting? Probably not.

Sam drove them to a sidewalk café a few blocks away where Olivia felt slightly under-dressed in her blue long-sleeved t-shirt and green slacks. The server came by, a skinny teenage guy with red hair gelled into spikes and an eyebrow ring. Olivia opened her mouth but Sam interrupted her.

"Could we get a bottle of the house red to start?"

"Of course," replied the server tersely.

"Excuse me," Olivia signalled, but the server had already left.

"Is that okay?" Sam asked, a look of concern on his face. Olivia sighed.

"It's fine. I'm just going to go use the bathroom," she said, excusing herself. On the way, she ran into the server.

"What a prick," said the server, gesturing towards Sam.

"Do you know him?" Olivia asked, surprised.

"I can just tell." He noticed the look on Olivia's face and explained, "There are only two types of men: pricks, and not pricks. Your boy over there is most definitely in the first group." Olivia looked at him questioningly, not knowing quite what to say.

"Sorry?" the guy offered. "Did I offend you?"

"It's okay," Olivia said, "We're just colleagues." She looked back at Sam. He waved. She furrowed her brow, still not sure quite what to make of him.

She returned to the table to find that Sam had already ordered for both of them.

"You have great cheekbones," Sam commented over their starter salads.

"Thanks," Olivia replied, unsure.

"You could bring them out even more. And your hair is great, too. You could cut it shorter at the front, though."

"Aren't you afraid some other men will come and steal me away?" she asked, smiling now.

"Not a chance." Well, she certainly didn't need to stroke his ego.

When Elliot returned from Prague, he noticed the bouquet of roses sitting on his partner's desk and, being the detective he was, he checked the tag.

"To Olivia. From yours truly, Sam." Elliot's gaze narrowed. Not Sam Bishop. But there was Olivia, coming in the door, laughing, arm in arm with Sam Bishop, the homicide detective. Elliot wondered if Olivia knew about how Sam had screamed at the victim's friend, showed her the pictures, created a new victim.

"Hey, Elliot!" Olivia greeted, breaking away from Sam. "How was your trip?" She noticed his tight jaw, his glare in Sam's direction. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. The trip was fine." If this guy needed to yell to get power over a defenceless teenage girl… "Liv, can I talk to you?" She looked back at Sam.

"Sure," she said.

"See you tonight," Sam said, winking at Elliot behind Olivia's back.

"You seeing that jerk?" Elliot asked, steering Olivia out into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of Munch and Fin. She crossed her arms defensively.

"Yeah. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yeah, I do. Liv, this guy needs power over women. Don't tell me you can't see that."

"Elliot, it's great to see you again, but you're not my father, so don't act like it. I can take care of myself," she snapped. But part of her wondered if Elliot was right. She had been trying to figure out Bishop's M.O. Maybe Elliot already knew it.

"So what did you do to piss off my partner?" asked Olivia as she rode in the passenger seat of Sam's SUV, on their way to dinner. Sam laughed.

"It's not hard to do," he said. She waited for him to give her a real answer. "I was trying to get information from our victim's best friend. I raised my voice. Look, I'm not used to dealing with live victims," he explained tightly. She could tell he didn't like being on the defensive. His explanation sounded plausible. They'd all had incidents like that when starting in the SVU.

"It's okay."

"I know." She felt suddenly tired.

"Sam, I'm feeling a little tired and I have an early morning tomorrow. Maybe you should just take me home," she suggested. He looked at her, concerned.

"Can I do anything for you?" She shook her head.

"I'm fine, really."

"Why don't we go to my place and order Chinese?" Her first instinct was to refuse, but she remembered the flowers and how he had booked off work tonight especially for this, and she felt guilty. She accepted.

His apartment was immaculate and larger than most cops'. She wondered if he came from money, or if he had had a different job before this. The hallway and the living room were painted several shades of eggshell white and the one splash of colour was a painting of what looked like an abstract red key over his gas fireplace. They sat on the black leather sofa in his living room while waiting for the food they had ordered, or rather, Sam had ordered. He brought her a glass of white wine and she set it down on the glass-topped, chrome-edged side tables.

"How was your day?" he inquired. She sighed.

"I'd rather not think about it anymore. How was yours?"

"Great. I saw you, didn't I?" she rolled her eyes. The buzzer rang and Sam got up with his wallet to pay for the food.

"Where's your bathroom?" Olivia called.

"First door on the left," Sam called back. Olivia turned down the hall and opened the first door on the left. It was not the bathroom; it was his bedroom. Over the black four-poster bed hung a poster of a brown-skinned woman wrapped in a piece of red shiny material that held her arms to her sides but left the rest of her exposed. She had ano expression on her face. It could have been a crime scene photo. There was another painting of a bride with her throat slashed, red running down her white dress. Olivia went across the room to read the painting's label: "The Sacrifice of Iphigenia." Olivia felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped.

"What are you doing?" asked Sam, leading her out of the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. "You shouldn't go in there; it's a mess." It hadn't looked messy to Olivia.

"Sorry," she said, "I got lost."

"Come and eat."

They sat at his forties black formica kitchen table and Sam poured her some more wine while she filled her plate with chicken chow mein and egg rolls. She looked at him, disconcerted, and tried to discern what part of him enjoyed those pictures in his bedroom. He didn't talk much while eating, just kept looking at her. She wondered if he was undressing her with his eyes, putting her in his black bed.

_"Put your arms over your head. It lifts the breasts. Move your legs apart, just a little more. Raise your left knee. You look fantastic." _

Olivia stood up abruptly.

"I have to go. I'm not feeling very well," she said. Sam furrowed his brow.

"Okay…Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I don't think so," she said, dropping a twenty on the table. "Thanks for the food."

She slammed the door behind her and ran all the way to the curb, where she hailed a cab to take her home.

One more chapter to go...


End file.
